


No One Knows Except The Both Of Us

by gaialux



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bathing/Washing, Curtain Fic, Future Fic, M/M, Non-Penetrative Sex Toys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-01
Updated: 2014-01-01
Packaged: 2018-01-07 00:21:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,331
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1113261
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gaialux/pseuds/gaialux
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is the life Dean thinks he always wanted. It just took him over forty years to realise it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	No One Knows Except The Both Of Us

Things change and, by things, Dean's referencing the whole freaking world. Sam tells him to stop being so melodramatic because not much really has changed. Dean tries to take Sam's approach, tries to condense the list. Firstly, they don't hunt as much anymore, that's the biggest change. Sam jokes that they've become reincarnations of Bobby, and Dean's inclined to agree, especially after they researched an entire case for Chrissy who never did give up on the gig. The other thing is that Sam has silver flecked through his hair — they both have. Dean reaches out, runs his hand through it, until Sam pushes away and says he's going to the buy hair dye. Tomorrow.

"Leave it," Dean says. "I like it."

It shows Dean that they've done this. Beaten death and come back to live — to be _alive_  — again and again. Grown old when Dean was sure every single year from Sam being stabbed to the final confrontation with God himself was the end.

He's not even sure what year it is anymore, because he doesn't care. Time doesn't exist. They manage to continue on this life away from what reminds them of the bad and hold onto only the good. A house in the suburbs, Sam working part-time in a law firm (paralegal only; he doesn't care about the title anymore) and Dean doing whatever the hell he wants on any given day because Sam refuses to have it any other way. They also play married, partially because it's easier and partially because that's exactly what Dean needs.

 

* * *

 

"You need to shave," Dean says over a bowl of Frosted Flakes. He never has grown out of them.

Sam swallows down a mouthful of oatmeal, because he's healthy and cares about stuff like that. "Thought you liked the grey."

"In your hair it's sexy, on your face you're starting to look like Bobby's." He can't stop himself from making a face. He loved —  _loves_ — the guy, but he fucks Sam and doesn't want _that_  visual in their bed.

Sam makes a face that's similar to how Dean's feels and dumps his plate in the sink. "Guess I'll go shave."

"No," Dean says. "I wanna do it."

Sam quirks an eyebrow but doesn't say anything, just turns from the kitchen and Dean knows he's going toward the bathroom. Dean follows.

They have decent water. Which they did in the bunker, sure, but the room always felt so clinical. This bathroom has an actual bath, sky lights that burn almost orange, and a freaking potted plant left by the realtor six years ago that they've never gotten rid of. He can't believe they've been living here over half a decade.

"I'm guessing you'll insist on the straight razor?"

Dean turns back to Sam. "Disposable ones are for shit." Instead of going over the cupboards to see if they even still _have_  a straight razor (because Dean _does_ use those crappy disposible ones, he just doesn't want to admit it), he moves toward the bath instead and twists on the water. "How about this first?"

"We haven't bathed together since we moved here," Sam says, staying put.

"This is almost a freaking spa, why don't we take advantage of that more often?" Dean swirls his hands around in the water. "Hey, where are those girly oils you bought?"

A tiny smile comes to Sam's face and he rifles through one of the drawers, pulling out two tiny bottles and squinting to read them. "Lavender — relaxing — or geranium — calming."

"Isn't that the same thing?"

Sam shrugs and tosses  one of the jars. Dean catches it, easily, reflexes not even the slightest bit lost over all these years. The bottle's purple, so he goes with the assumption of lavender. No reading glasses needed.

"Only put in a few drops," Sam says, sounding the slightest bit panicked as Dean pulls open the lid.

Dean puts in five — that's a few, right? — and shuts off the water, letting the hot run a few seconds longer because Sam likes to scorch his skin and Dean's never going to complain about good water consistency. He pulls off his shirt, follows with his pants, then glares at Sam until Sam starts doing the same.

"Hot water makes shaving easier" Dean says.

"You been watching infomercials again?"

Dean doesn't answer. He steps into the bath, wincing silently when he realises just _how_  hot he's made the water, but he's been through more and settles down into it.

"Come on," he says to Sam. "This is meant to be for you."

Dean presses his back against the end of the tub to make room for Sam who doesn't complain about the scalding water. Instead he sits straight down and leans against Dean's chest. Why haven't they done this in years?

"You're more grey at the back," Dean says into Sam's neck.

"You sure know how to give a compliment."

"I like it." He leans back and twists his fingers through the soft waves. "Makes me feel young."

Sam snorts. "You're forty-two, start accepting your age."

Really? He hadn't even been counting birthdays. Wow. Since when did he pass forty? Since when is _Sam_  almost forty? The thought scares him for reasons unknown and he wraps his arms around Sam's shoulders, pulls him closer until Sam looks back at him.

"You okay?" Sam asks, and Dean sees the concern in his eyes. His brother always cares.

Dean nods. "Yeah. Just realised how old I am."

"I was just kidding," Sam says, smiling. "You're not old."

Sam kisses him, and that always manages to make everything feel okay. Like they're in their twenties again and this is all exciting and new. In some ways, though, being older and wiser makes things better. Dean's not so afraid anymore; he finally understands that Sam wants this as much as Dean does.

"So, about your hatred for my stubble..."

Oh, right. The shaving. Looks like it's going to be the disposable razor because Dean's not moving from this bath and there's one sitting on the ledge. Looks new, or new enough. He leans over to reach the generic-brand shaving cream and fills his hand with it. Coaxing Sam's head further back, he slowly rubs the foam against his brother's face, careful to avoid his eyes, not putting too much on his lips. Not that it's easy, with Sam smiling for no reason Dean can see.

"I think the lavender's making you high," Dean says.

"Sleepy," Sam corrects.

"Sleepy you is the same as drunk you, so I'm not seeing the difference."

Sam curls a hand around Dean's neck, pulls him closer, kisses him until Dean's tasting shaving cream and it's not particularly pleasant. He keeps kissing Sam anyway until he needs air with the steam rising in the bathroom and the water that's still too hot. He then presses the blade to Sam's skin and drags gently. Until Sam holds his wrist, stops him.

"How safe is this if you can't see me?" Sam asks.

"How much damage can a five blade razor do? Really?"

A little shrug of Sam's shoulder and he releases his grip, allowing Dean to set back to work. He should have _taught_  Sam to shave like this, would have saved a lot of razor burn and stinging cuts. Plus there's something nice about it; the way Sam watches him with soft eyes and his hand slowly comes to rest on Dean's thigh, his fingers gently pressing into his skin, keeping time with the strokes of the razor.

"Other side," Dean says, and Sam turns.

The other side is faster, more efficient, but Dean still lingers at parts. Makes sure he doesn't nick the corner of his mouth and even decides to ignore the side-burns that are starting to show, because Sam has some weird connection to them.

"Done," Dean says, quietly, before reaching for a washcloth, soaking it in the lavender-scented water and running it over Sam's face. He does it once, twice, until all traces of the shaving foam are gone and Sam looks young again, like he hasn't aged a day since they moved here.

"Better?" Sam asks.

"Better," Dean says.

With a satisfied hum, Sam turns his face awy and rests more of his weight on Dean again. The water's still surprisingly warm in a much more healthy way, and Dean slips down a little, surrounds more of his body in it.

"Should've waited until tonight to do this," Sam says. "It's what? Ten in the morning? And lavender puts you to sleep."

Dean presses his face against Sam's neck, breathes in the slightly obnoxious floral scent, some soap, but mostly Sam. Even bathing doesn't make him smell less like _him_.

"I actually wanted to give you something out," Dean murmurs, tiredness suddenly hitting him as well. "But I can do it tomorrow."

"What?" Sam sounds more awake. "Just _please_  don't give me another tie. I've already got enough for every day of the year, even if I don't include the bright yellow one or the naked lady."

Dean grins despite himself. "Hey, the lady cost me a repair job. No, uh, this is actually a toy."

Sam pulls away, twists to look at Dean. "Like...a toy?"

"No, I got you a fucking Sapphire Barbie — yeah, 'like a toy'. Now I have to haul my ass out've the bath to _get_  it." Rather than bitch any further he does just that, with an overdramatic groan just to gain Sam's sympathies. "The things I do for you..."

He wraps a towel around his waist and half tip-toes quickly to their room, digging in the back of their closet for the jacket he hasn't put on in years. It now serves as a keep-all, a place where Sam never looks. Not that he keeps much from Sam — they've learnt by now that it's useless, detrimental, goes against the only thing they can really depend on and that's each other. Presents are an exception, mostly because Dean can never keep a surprise for long.

He pulls out what he wants, runs his hands over the ridges, and makes his way back to the bathroom with it behind his back. He's ridiculously proud of himself for buying this online and not needing Sam's help. Apparently this is part of _assimilating_  (okay, maybe not buying the _sex toy_ , but definitely the online purchase) so he's reaching that apple pie life Sam wants, even if it's taken him over four decades of living to get there.

When he goes back into the bathroom, Sam's running the hot water.

"You have any idea what our gas bill is gonna be?" Dean asks.

Sam smiles and turns off the faucet. "I'm sure Sam and Dean _Jones_  will have no trouble paying."

Dean's still annoyed that they didn't go with more inspired names — he always wanted to be Dean Page — but maybe this is for the best. _ones_. Completely normal, common. Just like they are now, and it's not a bad thing.

Shucking his towel and putting the toy — sleeve — inside, Dean gets back into the bath with Sam. He still draws him back, pressing him flat against his chest, and Sam does it without a fight or protest. He even sighs a little, and it sounds contented.

"What did you get me?" Sam asks.

"Sure you're not too tired?"

"No."

Dean believes him, even though Sam's eyes were hooded over when he came back into the room. He reaches down into the water and begins to stroke Sam's half-hard cock.

"Show me," Sam says, the slightest amount of breathiness in his voice already.

Dean leans over the edge of the tub and throws back his towel, revealing the blue cylinder. Sam's head moves to look at it, and Dean can feel his cock grow, warm and solid, in his hand.

"Marketed as solo," Dean says, picking it up. "But we can make it work."

"Know you will."

Dean drops a kiss to the back of Sam's neck and replaces his hand with the toy, slowly beginning to push down It's more difficult than it looks, tighter, and Sam's hand comes to rest over Dean's, helping to guide him. Dean lets it happen without complaint. Namely because of the soft, breathy noises Sam's making that Dean never wants to stop hearing. The sleeve covers his cock and Dean starts jerking it, slow. Sam's breathing increases.

"Gonna buy you things more often," Dean says.

Sam nods against him, head falling further back. "Yeah. Anything."

Dean's own cock is straining against Sam's back, but he pushes that to the back of his mind. He knows Sam will always return the favour, and sometimes it's even better watching Sam let go, seeing him come because of Dean, _for_  Dean. For his brother, his _husband_  in every way but legally — and even then it's still been written down on paper for over half a decade. The Jones's. Living in suburbia as husband and husband.

"Dean—" Sam says, pushing up, the movement pressing his back harder against Dean's cock. "Please—"

"Come on, baby." Dean moves his hand faster, pressing his fingers into the plastic material. Those bumps and ridges inside the sleeve must work like they say they do — increase pleasure, given a sensation you've never experienced — because one or Sam's hands is clenching onto the side of the porcelain bathtub.

One last tug and a simultaneous bite to Sam's neck has Sam coings hard and hot, come running down over Dean's fingers as he keeps stroking until Sam groans and pushes his hand away. He's breathing hard, body completely lax against Dean's. Dean brings his arms up to hold Sam's chest, murmuring words he can't even remember into his brother's ear. He thinks it might be something about them being together, married, how much he loves him. Cheesy crap like that he always says because he knows Sam loves it. And sometimes, having grown soft in his old age, Dean does, too.


End file.
